


Hang up your ensign, let your drums be still

by hapax (hapaxnym)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Aspec-friendly, Aziraphale is a soldier, Established Relationship, Heaven Is ... Not Very Nice, M/M, Major Character Injury, Medals, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon: Good Omens, Repressed Memories, Sort Of, Tartan, War in Heaven (Good Omens), falling, they're working on it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-22
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-12 13:34:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29635401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hapaxnym/pseuds/hapax
Summary: “I am here,” the Quartermaster said sternly, “about your regimentals.”Aziraphale, regrettably, gaped.  “My what?”“Yourregimentals, soldier!  Or perhaps I should sayex-soldier!”  A disgusted sniff.  “Deserter, traitor, whatever you like.  I’m here to strip you of uniform, rank, insignia, command, any connection whatsoever to the Host of Heaven.”When Heaven restores one of Aziraphale’s repressed memories of the War of the Rebellion, it threatens to destroy the tentative relationship he has begun to forge post-Notpocalypse with his hereditary enemy.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 35
Kudos: 96





	1. Regimentals

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mecurtin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mecurtin/gifts).



> For mecurtin, who didn’t mean to inspire this fic, but was only asking questions
> 
> The title comes from _Henry VI pt 1_.
> 
> Many thanks to elf_on_the_shelf for the beta!

The sudden sharp scent of ozone was his only warning.

Aziraphale had been enjoying a peaceful afternoon in his bookshop, immersed in the most enthralling epistolary novel about two ontological enemies from very different futures who happen to fall in love (Aziraphale’s heart may have belonged to the classics, but he wasn’t one to turn up his nose at the best of modern literature) when he jerked to attention at the unmistakable odour of incoming Heavenly intruders. 

He scarcely had a moment to spring to his feet and cast about for a weapon when the unnaturally bright shaft of sunlight through the oculus solidified into a familiar (if most unwelcome) figure, all stark white uniform, immaculate posture, and spectacular muttonchops quivering with disgust.

“Quartermaster,” Aziraphale said with cold politeness, setting down the heavy brass cherub he had seized as an impromptu club. “Such an unexpected surprise.” He spared a weary glance upwards, regretting the time he was now going to have to put into warding the dratted roof. “Unless I somehow missed the notice of your impending visit?”

“This isn’t a  _ visit _ ,” the other spat, as if the word were some vulgar newfangled slang. “This is a  _ duty _ . I wouldn’t have set a pinion into this … this …”

“Mercantile establishment?” Aziraphale supplied drily.

“Den of blackguards!” the military angel sneered. He glared about the bookshop, for all the world like someone expecting a ragtag pack of scoundrels, poltroons, rogues, and suchlike Victorian-melodrama-style villains to be lounging about on the furniture. Which was unlikely, since Crowley was out on his own errands.

Fortunately. 

“What duty?” Aziraphale inquired, holding on to his manners by his fingernails. What part of  _ leave them alone _ did Heaven fail to understand? “I have returned the sword I was issued, properly signed and registered, and my corporation is all present and accounted for, as you can plainly see …” he spread his fingers wide to indicate the solid, deceptively soft-looking body that he had moulded for his own comfort.

“I am here,” the Quartermaster said sternly, “about your regimentals.”

Aziraphale, regrettably, gaped. “My what?”

“Your  _ regimentals _ , soldier! Or perhaps I should say  _ ex _ -soldier!” A disgusted sniff. “Deserter,  _ traitor _ , whatever you like. I’m here to strip you of uniform, rank, insignia, command, any connection whatsoever to the Host of Heaven.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale was surprised to find himself at a bit of a loss. He had never enjoyed his military duties. He had gone to great effort to cultivate his more peaceful, less martial aspects. He had rather forcefully expressed his, er, disinclination to participate in any war in any manner the last time he had been to Heaven. He should have expected this. He should  _ welcome _ this.

Yet…

He had been created to be a warrior of Heaven. Whatever his private feelings, it was so intrinsic to his identity that he could scarce imagine himself as anything else. 

If he wasn’t a soldier, who was he?

Well, it seemed as though he was about to find out. “Very well, then.” He  _ snapped _ , retrieving a neat bundle from extraplanar storage and handing it over with a pang and a barely-repressed salute.

The Quartermaster accepted it with a grunt, then frowned. He gestured at his throat, but Aziraphale only raised puzzled eyebrows. Finally, he snapped out in exasperation, “Your  _ tie _ !”

Aziraphale took an instinctive step back. “My … tie? But it isn’t … isn’t …” He covered the bowtie he had worn for decades, in one form or another for  _ centuries _ , with a protective hand.

“It’s the Heaven’s Dress tartan, is it not? Dress or Hunting, that pattern belongs to your regiment, your  _ former _ regiment, not to you. You have no right to shame the clan by wearing it.”

“I …” Aziraphale’s fingers fumbled at his collar. He couldn’t… couldn’t …

The Quartermaster snorted with contempt, and gestured. The bowtie unknotted itself and flew to his hand. He held it up, and the elegant understated pattern drained, dripping into thin air and disappearing, leaving only a muddy, acidulous stain behind. Apparently unsatisfied, he ripped the fabric in half lengthwise; then reached out to slap Aziraphale across the face with the scraps.

Aziraphale felt a hot flush of anger and shame, but shoved it down. He chose this. He deserved, no, he  _ earned _ this. Every petty humiliation that the Quartermaster wished to heap upon him—well, it was the other angel’s right, but it could not actually harm Aziraphale.  _ The storm may rage and blow, but the mountain stands unmoved _ . He had not refused to fight in their misguided Armageddon on a whim, but out of sincere love for the Almighty’s Creation; he could jolly well withstand a little Heavenly bluster.

Failing to evoke any sort of reaction, the Quartermaster tossed the ruined bowtie to the floor, gestured again. and pulled from the air a pristine white box, shaped of gleaming nacre. Yanking up the lid, he dumped on the shop counter a small heap of ribbons, pins, scrolls, and other trinkets. “Your insignia and decorations. Heaven no longer wishes to have them cluttering up a place of honour.”

Aziraphale acknowledged the memorabilia with a stiff little nod, but said nothing.

Frustrated, the Quartermaster slammed the box shut. “We are under orders not to punish you as you deserve. Not to interact with you henceforth in any way. You are to be left strictly alone. And  _ alone _ is what you shall be. No regiment. No comrades. No common purpose. Just you and your cowardice: alone, alone,  _ alone _ . For all eternity.” He ostentatiously turned his back. “So be it.” With a final flick of his hands, he melted into the brilliant sunbeam, which swiftly faded into the bookshop’s customary mellow dimness.

Aziraphale sighed, and let his shoulders slump a bit. All right, that could have been much worse. And he  _ wasn’t _ alone. Hadn’t been, for over six thousand years, although it took him most of those millennia to acknowledge it. 

He had a demon,  _ his _ demon at his side. On  _ their  _ side. What that meant, exactly, well … they were still working that out. Too long a history of fear, and suspicion, and misunderstanding. Too many instances of saying the wrong words, cruel and hurtful and untrue. Not enough instances of saying the  _ right _ words. Whatever those might be.

He sighed again and picked up his torn and faded tie from the floor. With his other hand, he idly riffled through the little pile of decorations. Probably nothing worth keeping, he thought. He wondered if any of the members of his old platoon would like … no, surely not. Even if they might, it would only cause trouble … oh, what was this?

He teased out a faintly glowing medallion by the attached ribbon.  _ Ah _ . One of the commendations he received after the War,  _ The _ War, the First Rebellion. This one, he believed, was in recognition of the grievous injury to his thigh, one that still troubled him uncountable years later; wounds inflicted by infernal means never did heal properly. 

He wasn’t quite sure how it happened, to be honest. Ethereal entities do not have the luxury of forgetting; but if a particular memory is too distressing, a skilled healer might make the decision to extract it, as it were, from conscious knowledge, and store it in an external object. An object such as …

He looked at the subtly radiant medal more closely.  _ It was so long ago. It couldn’t hurt to know now. _ He touched the shining surface with one curious forefinger.

And Aziraphale  _ remembered _ .


	2. Commendation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _There was no glory in this work.  
>  Aziraphale supposed that he could be grateful for that small mercy._
> 
> There's a good reason that Aziraphale's memories of how he received his war injury were extracted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter gets a bit brutal: content warnings for war, fighting, description of injuries, blood (or the demonic/angelic equivalent), death (mentioned), involuntary body modification.
> 
> Thank you so much to elf_on_the_shelf for the beta, and to Fenris Lorsrai and AEthelflaed for helping me work out the action scenes in this chapter.

There was no glory in this work.

Aziraphale supposed that he could be grateful for that small mercy. 

Patrolling the perimeters of Heaven was a gritty, thankless assignment. Nothing like being on the front lines of the assault, streaming behind General Michael, expelling their rebellious siblings from their home. 

_ That _ was an engagement worthy of being preserved in murals and song: Lucifer, once the Morning Star, first among the Celestial Host, still beautiful and terrible in his insane quest to stand against the Almighty Herself; Michael, shining and dreadful, clad in her Armour of Righteousness and wielding the Lance of Wrath; and all about these principals, the boiling, writhing mass of angels and no-longer-angels (what they  _ were _ was not yet determined, but already their disobedience and deceit had begun to twist and deform their once-ethereal forms, burning their pristine wings with the fires of betrayal, tainting hands and faces with the traits of beasts yet to be created) seething and struggling and screaming, and so many of them dying, ceasing to  _ be _ , how was that even  _ possible _ , yet the golden ichor and tarry venom leaked out of holes punctured in their bodies, staining the Planes Between and lapping at the borders of Heaven itself …

It all had happened so suddenly! One moment (well, not moment really, Time was still yet to be invented, but was coming very soon indeed, with this massive explosive  _ crack _ between Before and After) Heaven was serene, harmonious, monoton- , no,  _ unruffled _ in common purpose and dedication to Her ineffable Plan. And then, everywhere it seemed, there were mutterings, complaints _ , questions _ … 

Before Aziraphale had even known what was happening, his robes had been exchanged for his uniform and his platoon was looking to him for orders. Michael and her Host had charged forth, glittering in armour and bristling with weapons, and the pristine paths of the Celestial City soon echoed with shouts and curses, and shone gold and black and wet.

No, Aziraphale was very glad that the soldiers under his command had been given another duty. It was horrible enough to hear the cries and clangor, to sense the suffering and … and …  _ cessation _ from far off.

All angels  _ could _ fight, of course, and would if the cause were sufficiently righteous. But not all were created for that grim task. It was the duty and honour of those who were to protect all the innocent, the Healers and Singers and Makers and Comforters and the rest, from the depredations of their siblings gone mad.

Thankfully, their rounds were generally uneventful. But there were far too many skirmishes with small bands of the rebels—scouts, perhaps, or deserters from the main fight, or possibly even regretful or refugees, it wasn’t for Aziraphale to judge, just to guard—who would attempt to sneak or scurry or even fight their way back into Heaven. Usually these intruders would grab one of the scalars, designed to simplify traversing metaphysical planes (a human prophet would later describe them as “ladders”, and it was as good a description as any); and although they weren’t intended as siege instruments, they served well enough. 

The only advantage that Aziraphale’s platoon had was that, in their panic and fury, the rebels almost always overloaded the things, and refused to cooperate in an orderly ascent. Most of the casualties were the products of infighting rather than the weapons of the defenders; cause enough chaos and it was easy to loosen the stabilising hooks and shove them over.

This current lot, unfortunately, was proving to be rather better organized and significantly more stubborn. Aziraphale had stationed his soldiers to form a solid defensive bulwark, which had so far repelled any effort to set foot in Heaven, but had little success in either detaching the scalar or discouraging continued assaults.

Aziraphale moved to the rear to reconsider tactics. He was about to deploy a new formation when a stray angel appeared, gliding to a less-than-graceful landing nearby.

“Back behind the walls! It’s not safe here!” Aziraphale shouted.

The other angel—𝕵⥁⬲ᖩᆈ, he gathered, in the way that any ethereal being can instantly perceive the Name of another—

(thousands of years later, standing in a bookshop, Aziraphale blinked at the memory, where the Name appeared …  _ smudged _ , like the defaced cartouche of a heretic king)

—ignored him, staring at the scene in bafflement. 

To judge by the stardust on their robes, they had been in the distant edges of the still-unfolding Creation, spinning nebulae or igniting novae or whatever it was the starshapers did out there. Probably hadn’t even had a clue that a violent rebellion had erupted back Home, poor thing, and must have been even more disconcerted than those who were caught up in it.

Before Aziraphale could again suggest (forcibly) that the unfamiliar angel seek shelter, a few of the rebels on the scalar caught sight of them. “𝕵⥁⬲ᖩᆈ !” one shouted. “Sibling! Help us!”

𝕵⥁⬲ᖩᆈ startled, and took a few steps towards the incursion. Instantly Aziraphale moved to block them, both sets of wings spread wide and flaming sword extended.

“What are you  _ doing _ ?” 𝕵⥁⬲ᖩᆈ cried. “What is going on? Why aren’t you helping them?”

He didn’t have  _ time _ for this! “I told you to get back! They … they …” He pointed his sword helplessly at the rebels, who cringed away from the Holy Fire. “They have rejected Heaven, they are opposed to the Almighty, they will destroy us all if they can, please, it’s complicated, just  _ go away _ …”

The starshaper looked at him as if he were babbling nonsense. “Don’t be daft. Aziraphale, just look at them! What happened to them?” 𝕵⥁⬲ᖩᆈ waved at the blackened wings, the scabbed and discoloured flesh, the misshaped and twisted limbs. “We should be healing them, but instead you’re  _ hurting  _ them. What is  _ wrong _ with you?”

They pushed past Aziraphale, who could not bring himself to strike a fellow angel. 𝕵⥁⬲ᖩᆈ then shoved and squirmed through his platoon, who turned conflicted faces towards their commander, clearly wondering how to deal with this. 

By the time he collected his scattered wits to signal that the soldiers should gently (but firmly) seize the interloper, 𝕵⥁⬲ᖩᆈhad reached the scalar, and was securing one of the stabilisers.

“Oi! You lot!” they shouted at the rebels, extending a hand. “Grab on! Who’s first?”

Aziraphale could see what was going to happen, wanted desperately to turn all his eyes away, but forced himself to observe, to watch for the inevitable opening. The shouted orders and grunts of pain, the creaking of the scalar and the clang of weapons, the acrid stench of ichor and venom and fire all faded as his focus narrowed in on the tactical situation.

Two rebels who had been jostling at the top of the scalar both lunged for that outstretched hand, forcing the starshaper off-balance. 𝕵⥁⬲ᖩᆈ stumbled and turned to the nearest member of Aziraphale’s platoon, who placed a steadying hand on the angel’s shoulder. 

The paler of the rebels, disfigured by a slash of greenish boils and empty stygian eyes howled and yanked harder. Aziraphale watched as the mouth of his darker comrade shaped the words, “They’re ours, they’re  _ ours _ !” while scarlet claws hooked into the unlucky starshaper’s robes. 

𝕵⥁⬲ᖩᆈ toppled over, flapping their wings desperately. They managed to latch on to the scalar several steps down, and were immediately pummelled and pinched by the rebels already there. 

Somehow the angel’s voice punched through Aziraphale’s concentration. “What have you done?” 𝕵⥁⬲ᖩᆈ cried in anguish. Silent flames were already licking along the marginal coverts of their wings, scorching them the colours of ash and soot. They turned an agonized face to Aziraphale. “Does She know about this?” They managed to crawl further up the scalar, dodging a kick from above. “Did She  _ intend  _ for this to happen?”

Aziraphale tried desperately to stop his ears as he steeled his heart. As he had expected, 𝕵⥁⬲ᖩᆈ’s struggles with the swarming rebels had caused the scalar to bend and sway. The poorly secured stabilisers began to twist loose. At his sharp gesture, the nearest soldiers pried them up and cast them away. 

“Aziraphale,  _ no _ ! I didn’t  _ mean _ to!” 𝕵⥁⬲ᖩᆈ pleaded. They scrabbled with their left hand, trying to find purchase. With horror, Aziraphale saw that the fingers had grown thin and knobbly, the nails transformed to cruel black talons.

Aziraphale kicked the scalar away.

In that instant, all sound vanished. All movement seemed impossibly to slow, every action nothing more than succession of frozen tableaus. 

Aziraphale saw 𝕵⥁⬲ᖩᆈ jolted off the scalar. 

𝕵⥁⬲ᖩᆈ, burning wings flung wide, desperately attempting to stay aloft, gaining just a few precious measures of altitude, almost almost  _ almost _ safe. 

𝕵⥁⬲ᖩᆈ, charred feathers crumbling, faltering, failing, flailing. 

𝕵⥁⬲ᖩᆈ, striking out, digging their claws into Aziraphale’s thigh.

𝕵⥁⬲ᖩᆈ,  _ falling _ .

Sensation rushed back as both angels screamed. Aziraphale felt those barbs piercing deep, scraping bone, until the weight of the plummeting angel ripped them away. Burning cold, icy fire raced from the wound, up his spine, seizing his heart. 

He collapsed to the ground, teetering on the edge, scarlet spots swimming before his vision. Warm strong hands grasped his shoulders, his soldiers hauling him back, steadying him, some voices muttering reassurances, others shouting for a Healer. He licked his lips, unsure whether the salty wetness was ichor or tears.

Just before he lost consciousness, he locked gazes with the distant starshaper, fallen past any rescue. Somehow he could still see their eyes were impossibly wide, the sclera melting into sulphurous gold from edge to edge, as the pupils transformed into sharpened slits.

In a bookshop millennia in the future, Aziraphale gasped as he shoved a medal away in shocked horror.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof.
> 
> Final chapter up on Friday!


	3. Tartan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The demon’s tone was pleading. “C’mon, talk to me, Angel. Don’t just stand there like the world is ending. Again.” A pause. “It isn’t, is it?”_
> 
> _It might be. At least for Aziraphale._
> 
> _Mirabile dictu_ , these two idiots actually sit down and talk it out.  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So much gratitude to elf_on_the_shelf for the beta.

Aziraphale was still standing at the counter, staring at nothing, ruined bowtie crumpled in his hand, when a whistling Crowley sauntered back into the bookshop.

“Angel!” The demon dropped the bakery box he had been carrying and rushed over. “This place  _ stinks _ of Heaven, what happened, are you all right?”

“Oh!” Aziraphale started, then summoned a weak smile. “Perfectly tickety-boo, nothing for you to concern yourself about, did you have a good morning out?”

“Don’t lie to me,” Crowley snarled. “You are obviously not  _ tickety-boo _ , can’t believe I just said that, who do I have to kill?”

“Hush, you fiend,” the angel’s smile grew a little more genuine. “It’s … well, you’re right, it isn’t  _ nothing _ , but I need … I need to think. I’m not ready to talk about it quite yet.” 

He lay a hand on Crowley’s sleeve, then gave his bicep a little squeeze. To think that he could do this now! The infinite grace of a simple touch, to give and to receive comfort! This was … all right, it wasn’t  _ everything _ , but it was more than he had ever imagined. He couldn’t give this up. He  _ couldn’t _ . 

“Huh. Sure. Fine.” Crowley awkwardly put his other hand over Aziraphale’s, and squeezed back. “I’ll just … I’ll put on the kettle. Yeah. Fancy a cuppa, Angel?”

He couldn’t tell Crowley. He mustn’t. Crowley would be so angry. So disgusted. So …  _ disappointed _ in Aziraphale. He’d  _ leave _ . The Quartermaster’s words echoed in Aziraphale’s memory.  _ Alone, alone, alone _ …

“Or cocoa, mebbe? Put a shot of brandy innit, right?” The demon’s tone was pleading. “C’mon, talk to me, Angel. Don’t just stand there like the world is ending. Again.” A pause. “It isn’t, is it?”

_ It might be. At least for me. _ No. Nonononono _ no _ . That was utterly selfish, not to mention destructive. How long had he poisoned this, this whatever-it-was with Crowley, with lies, with pretending, with refusing to admit the truth? He had sworn that he wasn’t going to do that anymore. He had to tell Crowley. Somehow. 

The demon …  _ cared _ about Aziraphale. He knew that he did. Crowley would … get over it. Understand.  _ Forgive _ . He was so much better at forgiving than Aziraphale, and wasn’t that ironic? Yes. He would tell Crowley. It was the right thing to do.

No matter the cost.

“Yes. I mean, no. The world isn’t ending. I believe that I  _ would  _ like some tea. Please.” Aziraphale met a demon’s worried eyes. “We need to talk.”

Crowley grimaced. “Ugh. Not one of mine, that phrase, but definitely from Hell. Nothing good  _ ever _ started with those words.”

After tucking the medal in his coat pocket, and equipping himself with a cup of fortifying pu’erh, Aziraphale led Crowley into the backroom. He chose not to take his customary place on the leather armchair, and instead seated himself primly at the near end of the sofa, facing the demon.

Crowley eyed him apprehensively, but didn’t say a word.

Aziraphale sipped his tea and considered. It was  _ possible _ that Crowley already knew what he was going to tell him, and had come to terms with it in his own way. In that case, bringing up the whole dreadful business would simply be cruel. Best to find out first.

“Dearest,” he began hesitantly, “we’ve never really discussed, er, Falling, have we?”

The effect on Crowley was electric. He leapt to his feet and began hissing. “Iss that what happened? Did those feathered arsssseholes come here and  _ threaten _ you? With  _ Falling _ ? S’not gonna happen, Angel, I sssswear, I won’t  _ let  _ it, I’ll go back up there and  _ burn the whole place down... _ ” 

“No, no!” Aziraphale held up his hands placatingly. “It was nothing of the sort! Please believe me, it doesn’t  _ work _ like that. No angel can …  _ force _ another to Fall.”  _ Not anymore, at least _ , he thought with an agonising twist of guilt. “Truly, this was merely a matter of … paperwork, as it were. Formalizing my resignation from the Host. Please, dear, sit.” He patted the cushion beside him.

After examining him closely, as if searching for some deception, Crowley folded himself back into the sofa.

“Forgive me, dear one, but I was speaking, that is, of  _ your _ Fall. Do you … remember much?”

“Nah.” The demon shook his head. “Bits here and there. Don’t like to talk about it.” He snapped his fingers and miracled up his own mug, which Aziraphale suspected did  _ not _ contain tea. “Old news, Angel.”

“Yes, well.” Aziraphale paused. “I don’t wish to touch on a painful topic, but I was … reacquainted, shall we say … with a relevant memory. One that belongs as much to you, I believe, as it does to me.” He fished the commendation out of his pocket, safely wrapped in the wreckage of his bowtie. “I am sorry. It is an … ugly thing. I’d just make a hash of trying to explain. Best to see for yourself.”

Crowley set down his mug and took the little packet gingerly. He turned it over, peering at the scrap of fabric, and raised an eyebrow. “ _ Paperwork _ , eh?”

The angel ignored this. “All you need to do is touch the medal itself. I … I truly am very sorry.”

Aziraphale could see the moment that the memory took hold of Crowley simply by watching his face. A brief flash of puzzlement, then sadness and something like bitterness, giving way to distaste. The expression of disgust grew more and more pronounced, until suddenly the demon’s eyes grew huge and round and he gasped. He dropped the medal like it burned him, and leapt as far from Aziraphale on the sofa as he could, cringing back against the armrest.

Oh, this was  _ worse _ than he had feared. Aziraphale winced. Well, if he was doomed to be alone, at least he had been honest. Crowley might forgive him, eventually. In time. Surely. A few hundred years, no more.

He opened his mouth to apologize yet again, but Crowley spoke first. “Angel?” he asked, in a very small voice. “Do you … d’you want me to leave?”

“What? No!”  _ Dear God, no. _ “Not unless  _ you _ feel the need to.”

The demon nodded minutely, but still looked horrified. “Ange- …  _ Aziraphale. _ I’m sorry. I … really didn’t know. ‘M so, sso, sssssorrry.”

Aziraphale just stared at him. “ _ You’re _ sorry? Whatever for?”

“Your leg!  _ I’m _ the one who wounded you! I almost  _ killed _ you! You’ve been in pain for thousands and thousands of years and it’s  _ my fault _ !” Crowley waved his hands in supplication as, impossibly, his eyes grew even wider. “Y’ _ know _ , right? In that memory. You know it was me? I mean,  _ not _ me, but  _ sorta _ me, me-that- _ was _ , whatever, the thing is that  _ I _ did that to you, and I didn’t  _ know _ , and you’re never ever going to want to  _ talk _ to me again, and I don’t blame you!”

“Oh, my goodness gracious, no!” This was not what Aziraphale had expected at all. He seized the demon’s wildly gesticulating hands. “Oh, my very dearest one, I don’t think that! I’d never hold that against you.”

Crowley stilled. His eyes travelled down to where their hands were joined, and back up to the angel’s face. “Y’don’t?”

“Of course, not! I don’t even know why you struck out, after all. It may very well have been panic, or just, I don’t know, seeking purchase to break your fall… It was  _ war _ , darling.” Aziraphale blushed faintly as the inadvertent endearment slipped out, but he continued on. “I don’t take it  _ personally _ .”

Crowley drew a deep, shuddering breath. “Okay. Okay.” He had also turned a little pink, and his fingers squeezed the angel’s tightly. “Suspect it wasn’t anything like so innocent, I  _ do _ remember what it was to be a new-minted demon, would’ve grabbed  _ any  _ opportunity to take a swipe at an angel, but … okay. Like your version better. But if it’s not that … what did you want to share that memory  _ for _ ?”

“I thought,” Aziraphale said tightly, “I thought that you should know. How it came to pass. Whose… whose fault it was. That you Fell.”

“Oh,  _ that _ ,” Crowley said dismissively. “Yeah. That happened.”

The angel blinked at him.

“Umm. Funny thing.” Crowley slid his hands free and wrapped his arms around himself tightly. “Kind of a relief, to be honest. I’ve done lots of terrible things in my time. Under orders, but, well, I  _ did _ them. I had always, well, been rather bothered, not  _ worried _ , y’know, but it didn’t seem  _ right _ , that I musta done somethin’ really horrible, to get kicked out of Heaven, and I didn’t even remember it.” He ran one hand through his hair. “Good to know that I actually Fell just for being a right idiot.”

Aziraphale was indignant. “You weren’t an  _ idiot _ .”

Crowley laughed a little, but it was a bitter thing. “Yeah, I was. You flat-out warned me.  _ Twice _ . But me, I was that arrogant bellend who ignores the professionals, always thinking I knew better.” He shook his head in disgust. “Did you recognize him, on top of the ladder-thingy? I’m pretty sure that was Hastur. Well, not Hastur  _ then _ , didn’t have any Name at all. None of ‘em did, and I would’ve  _ known _ that, wouldn’t I? But still I tried to drag him back to Heaven, like an absolute muppet.”

“You were showing compassion! While I—”

“Were doing your  _ job _ , Angel. Keeping everyone safe. Or you were tryin’ to, anyhow.” He looked straight at Aziraphale. “Not your fault.”

“But Crowley … surely you  _ must _ be furious with me!”  _ Why was he  _ arguing  _ about this? Why couldn’t he just shut his stupid mouth and accept this undeserved gift? _ “Don’t you understand? I literally cast you out from Heaven.  _ Me _ .  _ I _ did that. And all for a … a tactical advantage! To  _ win _ . For that, I made you  _ Fall _ .”

“Nope,” the demon insisted, popping the ‘p’. “Uh-uh. Said it yourself. No angel can  _ make _ another angel Fall. It was gonna happen eventually, anyhow.” He sighed. “Can you really see me choosing to stick around Heaven? Don’t you forget those other rebels were my  _ mates _ , Angel.” He shook his head. “Did you even  _ listen _ to me running my mouth in that memory? There I was, fresh from the bloody arse-end of the cosmos, no  _ clue _ as to what was going on; and I go sauntering into a bad situation, and promptly make everything worse. Start blaming  _ you.  _ Blaming  _ Heaven.  _ Blaming  _ Her. _ Blaming bloody  _ everyone _ , ‘cept the ones what done it.”

“But you would be right to blame me, Crowley.” Aziraphale twisted his fingers together. “I—”

“Stop it. Stop this right now. You’re talking like I should  _ resent _ you for Falling.” Crowley shrugged. “S’not so bad …”

“… once you get used to it, so you’ve said.” Aziraphale gave his brave demon a sad little smile. “But  _ I _ have said, oh, so many awful, cruel things, I can’t even remember them all!” He swallowed, then said very deliberately, “ _ Darling. _ You know that I don’t … You  _ are _ a demon. And I,” he choked a bit, then tried again. “I …”

Crowley was bright red by this point. “S’okay, Angel. I  _ know _ .” He ran both hands through his hair and mumbled, “Me too, yeah?”

“It isn’t ‘ _ even though _ ’,” Aziraphale continued earnestly. “It isn’t  _ ‘despite the fact that _ ’. You are a demon, and you’re  _ my  _ demon, and I don’t want you to be anything other than who you are.”

The demon in question was, at this moment, one hideously uncomfortable entity. “ _ Ngk _ .”

“So you must see that Falling … I know that it hurt you. It hurt you  _ terribly _ . It  _ still _ hurts you.” Aziraphale desperately wanted to look away, to cover his face, to hide in another room perhaps, but that wasn’t fair, wasn’t honest. “And I can’t help but feel that it’s all my fault.”

“No. Maybe. But lisssten.” Crowley turned his body so that he was fully facing Aziraphale. “You ssaid that you don’t want me to be anything elssse, and I … I don’t either. I’m  _ fine _ with me.” He turned his hands palm up. “That angel. In your memory. You didn’t know him, and I don’t either. Maybe we have some things in common. S’possible. But I’ll bet you anything I wouldn’t like him. Don’t like  _ any _ angels, honestly, they’re  _ all _ wankers. Present company excepted.”

Aziraphale huffed out a laugh. “Well, to be fair, I’m not terribly fond of any demons either. Present company excepted.”

“Yeah. Fair point.” Crowley smirked back. “But I don’t think you’d’ve liked that angel much, neither. I’d rather be, I guess, the demon you’re, um,  _ fond of _ .” He scratched at the back of his neck with some embarrassment. “S’like, like, you know how a midwife slaps the baby when they’re born, to start ‘em breathing?”

“Darling, I don’t think they still do that,” Aziraphale interrupted. “And I for one  _ certainly  _ never did.”

“That’s not the point! The point is,” Crowley waved his hands about, “the point  _ is _ , so what if maybe you were the one to kick me over the edge? That was like the slap that got me breathing. That started my whole new life. The life that brought me here. Now. With  _ you _ .” He grabbed at Aziraphale’s hands and gripped them hard. “I wouldn’t trade that life for  _ anything _ .” 

The angel felt tears prickle. He sniffed loudly. “Now who’s being a soppy old serpent?” 

Crowley tugged his hands closer. Aziraphale crumpled and fell forward into his demon, burying his fear and guilt and regret and all his overwhelming relief in Crowley’s bony shoulder.

“That’s right.” Stiffly, awkwardly, Crowley put his arms around him. “S’okay, Angel. It’s all okay.” 

Aziraphale turned his head, nestling his face in the hollow of the demon’s neck. Crowley relaxed, just a bit, then tightened the embrace. He tilted his chin so it could rest in that fluffy cloud of curls.

The angel and the demon sat like that, silent except for Aziraphale’s quiet snuffling, for quite a while.

Finally Crowley said, “I really don’t mind you shoving me out of Heaven, Angel, but if you’ve gone and left snot all over this outfit, I  _ will _ exact a terrible revenge.”

The angel gave a hiccupping little laugh and pulled back. He snapped his fingers, then patted the front of Crowley’s black silk jacket. “There you go, dear one. Immaculate.”

Crowley obviously tried very hard to frown at the description, but it melted into a heartbreakingly soft smile.

“Yes, well.” Aziraphale tugged at his own waistcoat. His fingers automatically proceeded to his collar to straighten his bowtie, then faltered.

“Aziraphale.”

“Aha, forgot. Bit of a bonus for you, that.” He was being foolish. With all the unexpected grace he had received today, only an old silly would repine over a bit of cloth. “Won’t have to look at that ghastly unfashionable tartan again.”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley repeated. Picking up the mutilated and mottled scrap, he ran it through his fingers. As he did, the rip miraculously re-knitted itself, and colours bloomed on the fabric: a bright, glowing plaid of creams and pale gold and sky blue, with prominent red and black stripes woven into the sett. “May I?”

At the angel’s shaky nod, Crowley carefully threaded the tie through Aziraphale’s collar. With focused delicacy, he tied a serviceable (if slightly lopsided) bow, and patted the knot. “There you go.”

Aziraphale lifted his hand and touched the tie reverently. He made no effort to straighten it. The thought never crossed his mind.

“Very stylish, that,” Crowley said, his eyes never leaving Aziraphale’s. “ _ Our _ tartan.  _ Our _ side.” He brushed a thumb across his cheek. “You ‘n’ me. Our  _ clan _ .”

END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Our Side Tartan created at www.tartanmaker.com. Do try it, it's fun!
> 
> Heartfelt thanks to everyone who commented, gave kudos, or just took the time to read. I'm so grateful that we're on the same side!

**Author's Note:**

> This fic adopts the fan speculation that the tartan shown in Aziraphale’s tie (and thermos, etc.) is the formal (‘Dress’) version of the same basic sett seen in military (‘Hunting’) version of the uniforms of his platoon.  
> The Heaven’s Dress Tartan in the section breaks was created for and owned by the Good Omens television show on Amazon Prime.
> 
> This work is complete and will update on Wednesday and Friday of this week.


End file.
